


All Our Own

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Knives Out (2019), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Monsters, BDSM, D/s, F/M, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Past Crowley (Supernatural)/Dean Winchester, tags added as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24371857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: When Dean agreed to be Sam's plus one for a charity casino night, he hadn't expected to meet Benoit Blanc. And he sure as hell hadn't expected to be propositioned by him.But here they were, six months later, Dean tied up to Blanc's bed and thinking that the thing he feels might be love. And isn't that a mess.
Relationships: Benoit Blanc (Knives Out)/Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Comments: 36
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flowerparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/gifts).



> For the always amazing Jenny.
> 
> Now beta read by Ro!!

“Boy, don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Dean, clothes molded to the creeper under his back by sweat and grease, doesn’t need to look away from the undercarriage of the car above him to see who the voice belongs to. Doesn’t need to look to see the scuffed boots with the inexplicable splotch of sparkly sheer pink that Dean  _ swears _ is nail polish but would never, even in his drunkest moments, say out loud.

“Uh… you mean other than on my ass doing my job?” Dean retorts, because the voice - and the boots he doesn’t need to look for - belong to Bobby, and if Dean doesn’t sass the old man at least twelve times a day, it’d be bad for both their blood pressures.

“Uh, yeah, jackass. Didn’t you promise your brother to go to that fancy thing of his tonight down in Omaha?”

“Shit! Fuckin’ - ouch, fucking  _ fuck _ !”

Dean tried to move too fast, scrambling out from under the car and banging his chin and elbow and both knees because he’s an idiot, and  _ fuck _ .

The large, dusty clock high on one wall of the shop says it’s 5:15, which is- 

Not good.

Sam’s fancy thing down in Omaha is some kind of charity casino night blah blah - Dean had tuned out after ‘free drinks’ and ‘poker’. But Sam had texted him just that morning, reminding Dean he had to wear his suit - the only suit he owned, the black one from their Dad’s funeral two years before. And Sam had said the fancy thing started at 8 and- 

And even if Dean floored it, there was traffic in Sioux Falls and traffic in Omaha, and he was  _ covered _ in sweat and grease, and he- 

“Fuck me,” he groaned and wiped at his face. “Sam’s gonna kill me.”

“Yep,” Bobby drawled in delighted agreement, taking familiar delight in Dean’s pain.

“God damnit. I need to use your shower.”

Bobby arched an eyebrow at him.

“Excuse you?”

Dean gave him a look, something between a glare and pleading eyes. He’d been assured by literally everyone that the look did nothing. So he added in a pout (Sam might have cornered the market on puppy eyes, but Dean knew how to use his mouth.).

Bobby rolled his eyes.

“Sure.  _ Fine _ . Hope you like freesia.”

Dean didn’t know what the hell freesia was (or why the hell Bobby owned body wash scented with flowers that smelled like… well, freesia probably).

Twenty minutes later, he was scrubbed more or less clean - his nails still had lines of black under them, but if Dean stayed long enough to take care of  _ that, _ he’d be way later than he was already going to be. He had on the damn suit, and the white button-up that was actually Sam’s because Dean had agreed to buy a suit for their father’s funeral but no one had told him he’d need a white shirt too, and- The point was, he’d bought the suit. Add to that the black tie that Bobby had given Dean for the funeral, and… well. Dean looked like he was going to a funeral.

Which is kinda what it felt like, when Dean pulled up to the fancy hotel in Omaha at 8:30. 

_ His funeral _ .

Because Sam was going to kill him.

His brother usually took his wife to these kinds of functions - Jess had, after all, signed on for permanent plus one status when she’d agreed to marry the sasquatch. But Jess was out of town, and on top of that, Sam’s boss had had the misfortune of losing a few hundred dollars to Dean in a poker game once and had more or less told Sam to get his brother to come to the thing on pain of being fired. At least that’s what Sam had made it sound like.

Dean parked his car - no way was he trusting the valet with her - and made his way into the hotel, followed the signs for the  _ Children’s Hospital Casino Charity Event _ until he finally reached a ballroom that was filled with people and sound and decor.

Someone had spent too much time in Vegas, Dean couldn’t help but think. The place looked like someone had crammed all of the best and worst of the city, of the casinos, into one room. Neon lights were rigged up overhead, signs and banners everywhere, slot machines, craps tables, black jack, poker, a space cleared for dancing, and cafe tables around everything. It smelled like food, and there were at least two bars set up - open bars, Sam had assured Dean, and then immediately offered his couch for Dean to crash on, because even though Dean wasn’t enough of an idiot to get toasted and drive home, their father had been, and well… Dean didn’t hold it against Sam.

It was easy enough to spot Sam in the hundred or more people - he was literally a head above everyone around him.

Dean grabbed a drink - made a face that it was champagne, but whatever - and after downing it for liquid courage, made his way to his brother’s side.

“You made it,” Sam greeted him, smile tight, eyes saying very clearly  _ what the fuck, dude? _

“Sure did,” Dean agreed, giving him a returning look,  _ I’m here, aren’t I? _

Sam put one hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezed tight enough to hurt.

“Everyone, this is my brother, Dean. Uh, Dean, this is Rowena McCloud - she’s the chief of surgery at the hospital.”

A petite, gorgeous, deadly looking redhead extended one small hand to Dean.

“Oh, I had no idea there were  _ two of you _ ,” she said with a predatory smile and a glance up (way, way up for her) at Sam.

Sam blushed, and Dean guessed this wasn’t the first time Rowena had tried to eye-fuck him.

“And my boss, Mr. Crowley. You’ve met before.”

Crowley and Dean exchanged nods - and Crowley gave Dean a look that was a hell of a lot like the one Rowena was still giving Sam. And that… wasn’t creepy at all. Nope. Not even a little.

“And Father Novak - he’s-”

“Didn’t think this would be your scene,” Dean interrupted Sam, giving Father Novak a hard look because Dean wasn’t much for organized religion, even less for hypocrites. And here Novak was, black jacket, shirt, trousers and white dog collar, and his bright blue eyes stared over at Dean like he could see into his soul.

“Yes, well, it’s for a good cause, and perhaps the fickleness of good fortune will lead some of this flock in my direction.”

Novak’s smile was tight, but at the same time, there was humor in his eyes.

Dean decided… maybe he didn’t hate the guy  _ that much _ . Yet.

“And, uh, this is-”

“Holy shit,” Dean breathed, his attention fixed on the man at Novak’s side, that Sam had indicated, and-

Sam made a choked sound, Novak covered his mouth with a hand, and Dean didn’t give a single flying fuck because-

“You’re Benoit Blanc,” he all but gasped.

Growing up (probably even still), Sam had had a thing for serial killers. Not, like, wanting to be one - the kid couldn’t kill a fly without actually going through some kind of moral crisis, because maybe it upset the ecosystem, and also, it wasn’t like the fly deserved death just for existing and… other Sam and his feelings things. Dean, on the other hand, had been obsessed with the other side of things - Eliot Ness and Wyatt Earp and  _ Benoit Blanc _ . Last of the gentlemen sleuths, or whatever that article in Vanity Fair had called him, and Dean had felt like such a fucking girl when he bought it at the grocery store, especially since he’d also been restocking his lube at the time and… well, he hadn’t been back to that HyVee since then.

“Indeed, I am,” the man, the  _ god _ , agreed, and held out his hand for Dean.

Dean shook it enthusiastically - too enthusiastically judging by Sam’s smirk, but  _ fuck Sam, he thought Manson was interesting _ .

In person, up close, Blanc was even more devastatingly gorgeous than in the photos Dean had maybe hoarded for over a decade now. Which wasn’t fair or right - the in-person beauty, not the photo hoarding - that shit was normal. 

Blanc’s eyes seemed even bluer, his skin even more tan, his hair more golden, the lines around his eyes and mouth even more touchable, his broad shoulders broader, and  _ fuck _ . He was nearly Dean’s height, seemed bigger with his build and the way he looked at Dean and-

“Hi,” Dean managed.

Blanc’s wide mouth quirked upwards, lopsided and so damn hot.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, voice all honeyed drawl, and  _ shit, _ Dean could come, just from that, just from Blanc’s voice, and he’d said Dean’s  _ name _ .

And Dean was still holding his hand.

Sam squeezed Dean’s shoulder again, threatening, and Dean made himself let go of Blanc.

“Well,” Crowley spoke up, rolling his eyes and shaking his head and being his typical asshole self, “you,” he pointed at Dean, “should get to work raising money for that hospital in my name.”

Dean didn’t bother fighting his own eye roll.

Sam had tried to explain it all to Dean - a dozen or so companies in Omaha, from law firms to retailers to banks to real estate agents, had all purchased a set number of gambling chips for the night for the use of their people. All of the money ‘won’ that night would go to the hospital, of course, but apparently, each of the companies were competing to see who could give the most money, or win the most money, or whatever.

Which explained why Crowley had wanted Dean brought in as a ringer, aside from the fact that Crowley  _ always _ asked Sam to bring Dean to things because he was under the delusion that one day Dean would decide Crowley was totally his type and go to his knees for him. Which wasn’t happening, no matter how many free drinks Dean had tonight - he’d had a long talk with himself about that in the car on the drive down here. It wasn’t happening. Not again.

“Poker tables are this way,” Sam said, and tried to tug on Dean’s shoulder.

But Blanc raised his perfect golden-brown eyebrows, and Dean stood frozen to the spot.

“Is poker your game, Dean?” Blanc asked.

And Dean… totally knew words. Knew how to say them. He did. Just… not right now.

He managed a nod, and Blanc’s smile was bright and sharp, and speaking of going to his knees…

“How fortunate. I was about to partake of a game or two myself. Shall we?”

_ Oh _ , Dean thought _ , we  _ fucking _ shall _ .

He pulled away from Sam, but not before his brother dug his fingernails into Dean’s arm one more time and gave him a look -  _ the _ look, actually. The  _ don’t you dare fuck him, Dean _ , look. 

Dean just grinned, his best  _ who, me? Sleep with inappropriate people? _ look, and Sam looked somewhere between furious and resigned. 

But Dean was already stepping away, up to Blanc’s side, and the man was still smiling at him, and Dean… was actually floating away on cloud nine right now.

“Tell me, Dean,” Blanc tilted his head close, let his lips graze over Dean’s ear, and Dean shivered, “is poker the only game you like to play?”

And they said you should never meet your heroes...

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Ro so succinctly put it:
> 
> Sam: Dean NO  
> Dean: Dean YES
> 
> (and now beta read by Ro!!)

Three hours later, Dean had lost more hands and more money at poker than he had since he’d been fourteen and been allowed to sit in on Bobby, Rufus and John’s poker nights and Rufus had let Dean get drunk off his ass.

The fact that the money was Crowley’s and not his own didn’t really make Dean feel any better (it should make him gleeful, because fuck Crowley - not like  _ that _ , not again, but fuck Crowley). The fact that he’d lost to  _ Benoit Blanc _ … well.

Dean wished he had impressed the other man, wished he’d beaten the pants off of him (jesus fuck, did he) and wished he’d earned sweet, honeyed praise from Blanc’s full, curved lips instead of knowing smirks and faint little tsking sounds. The conciliatory hand on his shoulder, patting and squeezing, thumb moving in a circle over Dean’s collarbone and so hot and firm he could feel it even through his shirt… that part had been okay.

The good/bad thing was that Dean wasn’t even drunk - had only had three glasses of champagne, and that was nothing, especially after he and Blanc had shared a plate of whatever the hell the crispy, fluffy pastry things with bacon and cream cheese were called. 

That said, Dean challenged  _ anyone _ to try to beat Benoit motherfucking Blanc in poker when the man just  _ sat there _ and  _ smiled _ and ran his fucking  _ fingers _ over the cards in his hand and leaned his  _ knee _ against Dean’s under the table and kept Dean held in place with his goddamn brilliant blue eyes.

Of course, after Dean groaned and shook his head over Blanc sweeping up the stack of chips that represented the last of Dean’s pride, Blanc just gave him a smile that was downright predatory.

“Now,” the older man said as he deposited the chips in a little basket stamped with the hospital logo and got to his feet, “that was an enjoyable start to the evening, don’t you think?”

Dean was still seated, had to look up and up, over Blanc’s broad chest, at the way his black jacket was tight on his shoulders and biceps, and the thing was-

The thing was, Dean had gone through his twink phase. Had realized at the age of sixteen that being bisexual meant he could fuck  _ all _ the pretty girls and boys, and he’d been eighteen when he’d used his fake ID to go to his first gay bar and gone home with a guy who called him ‘boy’ and used him in just the way Dean had never known he’d needed. Had been twenty-six the last time he’d been with a girl, because girls were awesome - soft and small and smelled so good and held him so nice, but Dean didn’t  _ want _ nice, not really, not when he could have firm and hard and sharp. 

But Dean was on the wrong side of thirty now, glaring down at thirty-two in just a few months, and he hadn’t been called ‘baby’ or ‘pretty’ or ‘boy’ in at least three years - not since that wild weekend in Chicago at the leather convention.

So it made no fucking sense for Dean to be sitting here, staring up at Blanc and wanting nothing more than to be put over the man’s knee and threatened with a good spanking if he didn’t behave.

Dean swallowed hard, forced his gaze to stay on Blanc’s face and not slip down to his waist, to the fly of his fitted black trousers and his crotch that was  _ right there in Dean’s face _ .

And then his brain processed the words.

Dean tried to swallow again, but his mouth was a goddamn gravel-filled desert, and he… he licked his lips and made a sound that he hoped to all hell was drowned out by the shitty music playing around them.

Blanc’s lips tipped up a little more on one side, and yeah, he’d heard it. Could probably see every desperate, dirty thought going through Dean’s mind right now.

“Shall we?” Blanc asked, stepping back two steps - way too far back, in Dean’s opinion.

And Dean had no idea what the hell Blanc was asking -  _ and did it fucking matter? The answer was gonna be hell yes, no matter what _ \- but Dean got to his feet and nodded.

Blanc turned, trusting Dean to follow, and Dean did, of course.

The older man dropped his chips off, wrote down  _ Dean _ ’s name next to the impressive total - $8300 from a game with a hundred-dollar buy-in. Then again, it hadn’t been just Dean and Blanc playing. And they’d been at it for three hours, and Dean hadn’t lost  _ every _ hand to Blanc.

Afterwards, Blanc turned and put his hand on the small of Dean’s back, as if he owned him - and  _ fuck _ . Dean needed to stop watching so much hardcore porn.

“It was exceptionally pleasant to spend these last few hours with you, Dean,” Blanc said, and while the words sent a thrill of heat through Dean, they were instantly frozen, because that sure as hell sounded like a goodbye, and what the hell? What about Blanc’s talk of other games and his whole  _ start of the evening _ -

“Uh, yeah,” Dean forced himself to agree, forced his face into neutrality, pasted on his best bland smile that he reserved for idiot customers with their carbon-fiber body computer chip cars who didn’t understand that they still had to get the damn oil changed.

Blanc’s hand was still on his back, and his fingers splayed wide, his hand so large it almost spanned across the small of his waist.

“Would you have any interest in accompanying me to my room for the evening? I have an excellent bottle of bourbon that would taste divine on your skin.”

Dean was used to being the fast one, the flirty, confident one who knew what he wanted and damn well got it. 

But Blanc - fucking hell, the man would  _ not _ let Dean find his balance, and for once, Dean was completely, so very, on-board with this floundering, twisting feeling in his gut.

“I… Sounds like a great plan,” Dean managed, so very proud of himself, because words. He’d spoken them instead of just melting into a puddle at Blanc’s feet.

Blanc smoothed his hand up Dean’s back and then down again, just low enough now to give Dean’s ass a proprietary squeeze that was there and gone so quick Dean wasn’t sure it had actually happened.

“Good, very good. Why don’t you say your goodbyes and come join me? I’m in room 322.”

Dean nodded, like an idiot, because that’s what he was and pretty much all he  _ could _ do.

Blanc gave him one last searing look and then he was gone, blending into the crowd of rich assholes and gone from Dean’s side.

And finally, Dean felt like he could breathe again. 

Several deep breaths later, he even felt like his brain had access to oxygen.

And even then, his only thought was  _ holy shit holy shit holy shit. _

It was a good thing that Sam found him, because otherwise, Dean might have stood there having a silent freak-out for who knew how long.

“What the  _ hell _ are you doing, man?” Sam hissed, one hand on Dean’s shoulder and his scowl suddenly close to Dean’s face.

Dean blinked himself back to reality - which sucked, because not-reality was him already naked on his knees with Blanc.

“Uh… standing here?”

“I mean with Benoit Blanc! And Crowley’s money! Dude, you-”

“Sam. Sammy. Chill out.”

“I saw you playing - you let him clean you out, Dean!”

And, well, that wasn’t really fair, but it also wasn’t entirely wrong. Still.

Dean pasted on his best shit-eating grin.

“Good thing he turned all the chips in under my name then, huh?”

Sam was caught mid-rant - always a damn awesome sight. He stood there, mouth open, and had to swallow a few times.

“What?” he finally asked.

Dean shrugged off Sam’s hand, reached out to straighten Sam’s tie and his jacket lapels, and he’d done it to be a shit but now that his fingers were fiddling with the fabric, it reminded him of Sam’s senior prom, of how nervous his brother had been and how red his face had gone when Dean shoved a strip of condoms into his breast pocket and reminded him,  _ no glove no love _ .

“I said,” Dean put on his best/worst smirk, “that Blanc turned in the chips under my name. Which means Crowley’s up $8300 on the night. Or however the hell that works out.”

Sam was stunned speechless - another of Dean’s favorite looks on him.

“Oh,” Sam finally managed.

Dean nodded in sage, smug agreement.

“So… so, where is he now?” Sam asked, and Dean almost,  _ almost _ felt bad for him.

He gave Sam’s bowtie one last tweak, clapped him on the shoulder, and stepped back.

“Up in his room. Waiting on me to get my fine ass up there so he can ruin it.”

“ _ No _ ,” Sam gasped, scandalized. “Please,  _ Dean _ ! You can’t- Don’t do this to me again!”

Sam had found out about Crowley, of course - hard not to when Crowley had apparently dropped by Sam’s desk the Monday after Dean’s weekend of  _ Never Again, What the Hell, Dean _ and told Sam that he should feel free to bring his slutty brother to all work functions from here-on out.

“What does it matter, dude? He’s Benoit Blanc! He doesn’t work with you. He’s- he’s a fucking world-famous private investigator. I’m not saying no to that dick, Sam.”

Sam looked like he was almost on the verge of tears, whether from Dean’s words or the mental image he was conjuring… Well, that was between Sam and his nightmares.

“Dean. Dean, he’s working with the firm on a case - he’s gonna be here for at least six months!”

And that… 

Probably, Sam shared that to scare Dean away. But it unfortunately had the opposite effect.

One-night stands were great - were pretty much Dean’s thing these days, after his thing with Lisa had crashed and burned five years ago - but the very small glimmer of a possibility that Dean could maybe, possibly, fucking  _ please anything or anyone out there listening _ , have a chance to fuck Benoit Blanc more than once? Dean was going to pull out all of his best tricks, going to be on his absolute best behavior and-

“Please tell me you aren’t putting together a gameplan for fucking him,” Sam growled.

And, because Dean loved his brother, he smiled at him and lied.

“No, I was just wondering if this place does a good continental breakfast in the mornings.”

Sam groaned in pain.

Dean was, after all, still an asshole.

Sam looked like he was gearing himself up for another argument, another attempt at talking Dean into keeping it in his pants - and Dean had Blanc waiting for him upstairs, so it was time to wrap this up.

“Oh, I won’t need to use your couch tonight after all, kiddo.”

With that awesome parting shot, Dean gave him a wink and walked away - a little fast, because if Sam did get it into his head to attempt to physically stop Dean, he was taller and quicker.

But Dean made it safely to the elevator, no one on his heels, and all but sagged in relief when the doors opened and he stepped into the gold-walled interior.

He pressed the button for the third floor and used the very reflective surface in the elevator to straighten himself up, finger-comb his hair back into orderly disarray and check his teeth to make sure they were clean.

And then the elevator was opening and Dean’s heart was pounding wildly as he started down the hall.

Dean knew he was hot - he’d been told it ever since he was a fucking kid and some local store had given his father a hundred dollars for Dean to hold an Easter basket and be on an ad for them because he was ‘the most beautiful child in Kansas’ or something. And he’d been told it in a lot more explicit, dirty detail when he got older, by girls and women and boys and men, and that one awesome genderfluid hook-up Dean had had at Stanford when he’d gone to visit Sam during college. 

And Blanc wasn’t even the first famous person Dean had fucked (well, he hadn’t fucked Blanc yet, but what  _ else _ was going to happen when the man said he wanted to lick bourbon off of Dean?), but sleeping with a few drunk and past their prime rockstars wasn’t the same thing as potentially going on his knees for  _ Benoit Blanc _ .

But Dean wasn’t entirely sure hot was going to cut it. And he’d already proven that he wasn’t capable of any kind of witty conversation. So…

So Dean was, for the first time since he’d been fifteen and fumbling to get his fingers under a girl’s bra, nervous.

Even so, he drew in a deep breath, tried to will his stupid heartbeat to calm down, and knocked on Blanc’s door.

-o-

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now beta read by the always amazing Ro!!!

Blanc opened the door wearing his suit trousers, suspenders and with his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck and rolled up to his elbows.

Dean hadn’t ever jerked off to The Untouchables, but Kevin Costner had never been as magnetically sexy as Benoit Blanc, so… there was that. That, and Blanc looking like every wet dream Dean wished he had been imaginative enough to have.

“Dean,” he greeted, mouth a warm curl, “please come in.”

He wasn’t about to turn down that invitation, so Dean stepped past Blanc and into the hotel room.

And was once again caught off-guard.

Because this wasn’t a room - wasn’t some chic but nondescript blank room with a bed and desk and chair and dresser - it was an apartment. There was a full kitchen to Dean’s left, a little nook with a table and two chairs to the right, and beyond that, an actual living room with a lit fireplace and a huge leather sectional and a wall of windows that revealed the glow of Omaha at night. There was a staircase that led up and up, and Dean found himself walking further into the room so that he could crane his neck and see an open loft space.

“The bedroom,” Blanc said, coming up behind Dean, voice sending shivers down his spine.

“Is this a penthouse?” Dean asked. He’d never seen one - outside of movies.

“No, this is the Executive Loft. Your brother’s firm is paying for my accommodations during my time here.”

Dean nodded, because that… was cool. Good to know. Important information to have. Just like the fact that Blanc’s bed was just a few feet above them. 

A bed that Dean really, really wanted to get fucked in.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Blanc said and gestured towards the leather sectional.

Dean arched an eyebrow, feeling not so much confident as stuck on his default setting of asshole.

“How comfortable are we talking?” he asked.

Blanc’s gaze raked Dean from head to foot and then back up, eyes fixed on Dean’s lips as he stepped close enough for Dean to feel the heat of his powerful body.

“I assure you,” Blanc said, his voice low and warm and breath hot on Dean’s face, “your comfort is very, very important to me.”

And then Blanc was kissing him.

His mouth was hot and firm, demanding against Dean’s lips without being rough, hard but not forgiving, and it was like Blanc knew exactly how Dean wanted - needed - to be kissed.

Dean leaned into it - hell, he practically melted into it when Blanc’s tongue teased over Dean’s lips - and then Blanc’s teeth were sinking into Dean’s lower lip, pulling and nipping sharp enough to draw a gasp from Dean.

“This mouth,” Blanc growled, “has been distracting me all night.” 

He kissed Dean again, leading with his teeth for a moment before Dean opened his lips and then their tongues were together, tasting and testing, and Dean could taste mint, as though Blanc had brushed his teeth while waiting for Dean.

“Liar,” Dean panted when Blanc moved his lips to Dean’s jaw, teeth scraping against Dean’s stubble and tongue tracing over the bright spots of sensation.

Blanc huffed a laugh.

“I promise you,” he said, his mouth now against Dean’s ear, “I never lie to beautiful boys I intend to fuck.”

The combination of sweetness and filth had Dean actually unsteady on his feet, and he made a sound that was embarrassing and made him blush.

“You owned that table all night,” he protested - had to, because, well, because he was Dean Winchester and if he wasn’t being an asshole and sabotaging himself, then he probably wasn’t breathing.

Blanc’s hands were on Dean’s ass, grip tight and possessive as he hauled Dean flush to him. Dean fisted his hands in Blanc’s shirt, holding on and hoping this moment never, ever ended.

“We owned that table,” Blanc insisted. “No one could focus on anything but your gorgeous face, and you, boy, flirted with everyone until no one even remembered their own names.”

“Not you,” Dean had to point out.

Blanc kissed him again, and this time, it felt like a prelude to fucking, felt like Blanc staking a claim and showing Dean exactly just how breathless and aching he intended to have Dean for the rest of the night.

Blanc gave another laugh when he pulled away.

“No, I assure you, I was just as transfixed as your other admirers. However, I do have a… professional reputation to uphold.”

It made Dean laugh too, and Blanc’s eyes crinkled when he smiled back at him.

Then Blanc let him go, stepped back, and Dean couldn’t help but try to rock forward and closer again.

“Pretty boy,” Blanc said, and his eyes felt like a caress over Dean’s face, “why don’t you show me what you’ve got under that suit?”

Blanc continued to back up until Dean had to let him go, and then Blanc sat down on the leather sectional, crossed one leg over the other and spread his arms across the back of it and looked up at Dean as if waiting for a show to start.

Dean swallowed hard, felt like he was twenty-one and walking into a club in his tightest jeans and shirt and hoping to get fucked.

But, well, he had gotten fucked back then - had never not gotten fucked when it was what he wanted, and Blanc, clearly, was a sure thing. A sure thing who had already told Dean how much he liked looking at him.

Giving him more to look at… maybe more to compliment? Dean could do that.

So he smirked, the expression that always got him free drinks and invitations home, and tugged on his tie.

“Should we put on music for this?” he teased.

Blanc simply arched an eyebrow.

“If you would like,” he said in that goddamn drawl.

It was a little quiet, even though Dean had just been joking. The fire was obviously gas, so there wasn’t even the crackle of logs and flame to be heard over the rustle of Dean’s clothes, his unsteady breathing and his too-loud heartbeat.

But, weirdly, Dean didn’t want to make this into a joke or… taint it, somehow, by putting on something to distract them both. 

“Talk to me,” Dean suggested instead.

He dropped his tie and suit jacket over the nearest arm of the sectional and started in on his shirt buttons.

Blanc’s gaze was dark and fixed on him.

“Hm. Would you like me to share your poker tells with you? Or would you prefer I let you know exactly what I want to do with you tonight?”

Dean was only done with the buttons on his cuffs, but he stopped and glared.

“I don’t have any tells.”

Blanc just bounced his eyebrows once, smiled a little more deeply.

Dean scowled.

“I don’t,” he muttered.

“In that case, let me explain in detail all of the ways I intend to have you.”

And that… was a lot more important than defending his poker skills.

Dean started on the neck of his shirt and silently begged Blanc to do exactly that.

“First,” Blanc settled even further back on the sectional, looking comfortable and confident and so damn sexy it was hard for Dean to keep himself from just crawling into his lap, “first, I’m going to introduce you to that bourbon. I’ll have you right here,” he said and patted the leather beside his thigh. “On display for me so I can learn what you like.”

Dean swallowed hard, fingers trembling just a bit as he jerked his last button free and started to shrug off the shirt.

“Sounds… good,” Dean said, and wasn’t surprised that his voice sounded rough and wrecked already. From nothing more than Blanc’s words and looks.

“Mmm.” Blanc admired Dean’s bare chest, and Dean tried not to feel self-conscious. After all, he wasn’t his twenty-one year old twink self anymore. And he didn’t have Sam’s devotion to running and working out and eating healthy, but Dean did do a lot of physical labor - at the garage and in his own yard and around his house, and he’d stopped drinking as heavily in recent years, after his father’s death. Even so, the curve of his belly and the lack of definition in his abs was… something he was all-too aware of.

“You are going to taste perfect,” Blanc said, voice nearly a sigh.

Heat rushed over Dean, made his face and chest no doubt turn red.

He pushed past his embarrassment at Blanc’s open admiration and instead unfastened his trousers.

“And after that, I’ll have to have you in my bed. Legs like yours, Dean… I think you’ll ride me. And if you are very, very good for me, I’ll let you come again.”

“Again?” Dean asked, practically squeaked, and what the fuck, was he reverting back to a horny teenager?

Blanc smirked.

“I did say I intend to have you on this couch, did I not? And that I believe you will taste perfect.”

Right. That. Dean had thought it was going to just be a lot of tortuous foreplay with the bourbon. But… that was a good plan too.

“I can be good,” he said, words a little rushed, and he flushed again at Blanc’s answering smirk.

“I have no doubt.”

Dean swallowed hard and shoved his trousers down to his knees, let the weight carry them down to his ankles where they pooled around his socks and shoes and… this would be the awkward part, where he had to get those off and not look like too much of an idiot.

“Do you always go without underwear?” Blanc asked, sounding equal parts amused and aroused.

Dean looked down at himself, at his hard dick hanging heavy between his legs and all of him on full display for Blanc.

Half-self-consciously and half-teasingly, Dean ran a hand over his thigh and dick, tugged just a bit before letting go and resting the hand on his belly.

“Only when I got oil all over them at work and don’t want to fuck up my only suit.”

Blanc nodded, as if Dean’s utter incompetence wasn’t a turn-off.

He stood up.

“Why don’t you get situated here while I fetch the bourbon?” he suggested.

And Dean so very, very appreciated the chance to get his shoes and socks off without having Blanc staring at him with that heated, knowing gaze.

Blanc stepped closer to him, leaned in for another kiss and stroked one hand over Dean’s bare back, down to his ass - Dean was sensing a theme with Blanc’s attention to his mouth and ass. He squeezed once, then walked towards the kitchen.

Dean drew in an unsteady breath, hurriedly and clumsily got himself completely naked, and then laid down on the leather sectional. It was big enough that he could completely stretch out on one-half of it and not even touch the far arm with his toes.

The leather felt strange under his skin, warm from the fire, soft, but also clinging to him.

Blanc came back into the room with a black-labeled bottle of amber liquid in one hand and two rocks glasses - one full of ice - in the other.

Dean had to arch an eyebrow at the ice - he didn’t know a single serious whiskey drinker who would waste it on ice.

Blanc must have read his mind.

“Oh, this isn’t for the bourbon,” he said to Dean as he set both the bottle and glasses on the coffee table.

The couch was wide enough that he was able to sit down on it at Dean’s hip, clothed thigh pressed close.

Dean could make out the label of the bourbon - a wheat bourbon that had been aged twelve years and in no world was any kind of affordable for Dean.

He couldn’t help but lick his lips, eager almost as much for a taste of the expensive drink as he was for another taste of Blanc himself.

Blanc picked up one of the ice cubes, and Dean- Dean probably should have seen this coming.

He couldn’t help the shiver that rolled through his body, and Blanc smirked as he held the ice over Dean.

The first cold, wet touch was to Dean’s lips, tracing over them until they were chilled and slick. Blanc hummed in satisfaction and started to drag the ice lower.

It caught on Dean’s lower lip for a moment, tugged, and then it was trailing over his chin and down his throat.

Dean arched, baring his throat.

“You are so wonderfully responsive, Dean,” Blanc murmured.

It made Dean blush - wasn’t the kind of thing he heard from his usual hookups or the kind of thing he had ever wanted to hear. But from Blanc? It actually made Dean feel good about himself.

The ice left a cool trail in its wake as Blanc drew it over Dean’s chest and then in a circle around Dean’s right nipple.

Dean made yet another embarrassing noise, and Blanc only smiled and pressed the ice against the already hard, dark numb.

Dean bit his lip, tried to jerk away, but Blanc had very effectively pinned him in place.

“No?” Blanc asked.

“I- No- I mean, yes. It’s good - just- cold.” Dean sounded like a fucking moron. Fuck.

But Blanc merely hummed again, pulled the ice away and replaced it with his mouth. His lips closed around Dean’s nipple, his teeth bit down just the slightest bit and his tongue teased against the now very sensitive skin.

Dean groaned.

“Better?” Blanc asked, head still bent over Dean’s chest.

“Yeah,” Dean panted.

“Good,” Blanc all but purred.

He repeated the treatment on the other side - ice first, and then his mouth, until Dean was trying to hump the air because he’d always had sensitive nipples, and this was torture.

Blanc merely went back to his right side, ice and mouth and teeth and tongue, and worked Dean over, teased him with ice on one side and his mouth on the other before switching, and Dean was a mess.

“Please,” he finally had to beg.

“Please what, beautiful boy?” Blanc asked. 

Which, of course, had Dean blushing again, and what the hell?

By this point, the ice was just a small fleck of cold, most of the sensation and water now just Blanc’s fingers - which he trailed over Dean’s belly while he waited for Dean to answer.

“I- Fuck, I don’t even know,” Dean admitted.

Blanc smiled.

“Shall we try the bourbon?” he suggested.

Dean nodded eagerly. That- that sounded good.

He started to sit up, but Blanc pushed him back down, gentle but firm.

Blanc turned away enough to open the bourbon - breaking the seal in a quick twist of his wrist - before pouring two fingers of the liquid in the empty glass.

He put the bourbon bottle down and picked up the glass, swirling it once and then ducking his head to sniff it. He made a pleased sound - the same he’d made when Dean had first unzipped his trousers - and then took a sip of it.

Blanc’s lips curled up, a soft, private smile.

“Very nice,” he decided. He took another sip, and then leaned down to press his lips to Dean’s.

And - not how Dean had seen this going but so, so okay with him.

Blanc shared the bourbon, smooth and hot and goddamn amazing. It tasted a little like chocolate, but also spicy. The longer it sat on Dean’s tongue, the longer Blanc fed it to him, Dean could taste more - something sharp and woodsy and something stronger, nutty and full. It was, as Blanc had said, very nice.

When Blanc pulled back, Dean couldn’t help but chase his mouth until Blanc was once again holding him down. Which… was a whole other kind of nice.

Blanc took another sip, shared it with Dean, and then picked up another piece of ice.

Dean groaned, but with Blanc’s tongue in his mouth and the taste of the bourbon between them, it wasn’t like he could complain.

Not even when Blanc dragged the ice over his inner thigh and Dean almost kicked him.

Blanc just held him down, steady and strong and so very warm.

He stopped kissing Dean and instead moved away, tracing the ice over Dean’s legs, inching close to his dick but never touching, and Dean couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing.

But when that piece of ice had melted to nothing and Dean’s legs and chest were wet, Blanc bent his head to Dean’s dick and licked a hot path from the base to the head, and Dean… Dean just about came from that alone.

Blanc made that pleased sound again.

“You pair exceedingly well with bourbon,” he informed Dean.

And Dean couldn’t help but laugh - it was such a… such a line, but Blanc was so very sincere, from the tone of his voice to the smile he shared with Dean to bending his head and taking Dean’s dick into his mouth, down and down until his lips were against Dean’s pubic hair, and fuck.

“Fuck,” he panted. “Jesus fuck.” 

Dean struggled for a moment, hands waving awkwardly in the air before he decided to risk it and put them on Blanc, one on his shoulder and one in his hair.

Another pleased sound from Blanc, a swirl of tongue, and Blanc pulled off Dean’s dick almost all the way before sinking back down again.

Dean had to work hard to keep still - but he knew good blowjob etiquette, knew not everyone wanted their face fucked like he did, and it was just- It was so good.

Blanc cradled Dean’s balls in one hand, fondling, squeezing and tormenting Dean. His other hand, he trailed up Dean’s body, tweaking a nipple along the way, and then pressed his fingers to Dean’s lips until Dean got the hint and opened his mouth.

As Blanc continued to give Dean one hell of a blowjob, Dean sucked on his index and middle fingers, ran his teeth over them just to earn an amused huff from Blanc before the man gave him another of those pleased hums that felt amazing around Dean’s dick.

He didn’t last long - long enough to not feel like even more of a horny teenager - but when Dean could have happily spent the rest of his life on this leather couch with Blanc’s mouth on his dick, it wasn’t long enough when he felt his orgasm build hot and insistent.

“I’m- gonna-” he tried to mumble around Blanc’s fingers - gave his shoulder a squeeze, even - but Blanc was undeterred in his efforts and kept his mouth moving along Dean’s shaft in the way that the man had almost immediately discovered Dean liked best.

“Fuck, I- Fuck.”

Dean came with a whimper as Blanc kept sucking and fondling, and pleasure seared through Dean’s bones.

Thankfully, Blanc eased back, just a bit, swallowing around Dean’s dick but keeping it in his mouth while Dean shuddered and rocked through it.

The hand that had been in Dean’s mouth returned, and Dean sucked his fingers again, harder and more insistently now, a sort of thanks and plea for more.

When Blanc finally let him go, finally sat up and pulled both hands away and let Dean’s dick fall wet and small back against his belly, both men were almost breathing evenly again.

“Delicious,” Blanc said, swiping his tongue over his lips and smirking down at Dean.

Dean laughed, had to, because Blanc looked so damn pleased with himself over giving Dean one hell of a blowjob.

Blanc smiled down at him, took another sip of bourbon and looked even more pleased.

“Shall we bring the bourbon upstairs with us?” he asked Dean.

Who could only nod and hope this night never ended.

-o-

  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

After ten weeks of… this thing Dean and Blanc were doing, they had established a routine.

Dean left work early on Fridays - making up for it by working later the following week - so that he could avoid traffic getting into Omaha. He usually arrived at Blanc’s hotel around four, while the other man was still working either at Crowley’s office or out interviewing people for the mysterious case he was working. It gave Dean time to shower and change into nice clothes - ‘nice’ meaning jeans without stains or holes and fitted sweaters or button-ups, and Dean had actually had to go out and  _ buy clothes _ for the first time in years. 

By the time Dean was showered and dressed, Blanc was usually downstairs, waiting for Dean with two glasses of something expensive and amazing, and they made out for awhile on that amazing leather sectional before Dean inevitably went for Blanc’s dick and Blanc just as inevitably guided his hands away and dragged Dean to his feet and took them out to some expensive restaurant in town to wine and dine Dean.

It was only after - after Blanc insisted on buying Dean stupidly crazy food and drinks and then walking with him until they were both cold and no longer on the verge of falling asleep as soon as they got horizontal. It was only  _ then _ , when they went back to Blanc’s hotel, that Blanc stripped Dean and laid him out and finally fucked him. 

Except that first night of the weekend, Blanc was always… not gentle, not tame, but something that made it a lot less like fucking and more like… something Dean didn’t let himself dwell on very much.

Saturday, they woke up together and fucked leisurely before having breakfast and a long swim in the hotel’s pool. After a shower together, the  _ fucking _ Dean spent each week anticipating finally commenced. 

Blanc seemed to have an endless list of things to do to, and with, Dean, fulfilling fantasies Dean had had for years and doing things to Dean he had never even thought to imagine.

Sundays were for waking up late and slow, Blanc wrapped around Dean and holding him as if he had no intention of letting Dean go. Dean couldn’t decide if Sunday mornings were his favorite or least favorite part of the whole weekend, but eventually, Blanc  _ did _ let Dean go. And Dean got up and showered, flirted and dressed while Blanc stayed in bed and watched him with sleepy, lust-filled eyes. 

And then Dean left, went to Sam and Jess’s house to have lunch and work on whatever thing needed to be fixed or improved that Sam wanted his help with. 

Then, it was back to Sioux Falls, to Dean’s real life and a whole five days before he could see Blanc again.

And it was fine. It was  _ good _ . It was the best Dean had ever had, really.

But then Blanc had to go and change things. 

It wasn’t just one thing, either. And it wasn’t something he eased Dean into like he had edging Dean with that damn demonic prostate massager that Dean had discovered cost more than his monthly mortgage payment.

No, out of the blue, one Wednesday night when Dean was settling down with his two-day-old Chinese leftovers, Blanc  _ called _ him.

They had exchanged phone numbers after that first time, Dean hopeful but mostly convinced he would never hear from Blanc again. But then Blanc had texted him on the following Thursday, had asked Dean if he had any plans for the weekend and invited him to spend as much of it naked in Blanc’s bed as Dean wanted. Every week since, Blanc had extended the same invitation on Thursdays.

So it wasn’t a shock that Blanc contacted him, but… a phone call. But a phone call, and on a Wednesday, took Dean entirely by surprise.

Especially since Blanc opened the call with “Darling boy, I miss you.”

Which…

Which made Dean’s throat go dry and his dick go hard and his brain go blank.

Matters weren’t helped when Blanc kept going, talking about his day - interviewing a wide range of people who all sounded absolutely insane to Dean and telling Dean about a cherry red ‘66 Mustang Shelby GT350 one of his interviewees owned. And, of course, Dean insisted on details, and, of course, Blanc provided them - along with photos - and they spent almost two hours on the phone, Blanc listening to Dean wax poetic about cars, the one thing he had ever felt confident in his own knowledge and prowess about. 

It was nearly eleven when Blanc said goodnight, told Dean to sleep well and “I’m looking forward to holding you again, my beautiful boy.”

Which… wasn’t  _ fair _ . 

Especially not when the Wednesday night calls became a new part of the routine. When Dean found himself looking forward to the sound of his annoying as fuck ringtone, when he couldn’t wait for his heart to do that stupid stuttering skip when Blanc called him  _ darling boy, _ and when Dean got to lay down in bed and hear Blanc tell him to sleep well and all but whispered  _ beautiful boy _ into Dean’s eager ear.

Not fair at all.

But then, four months into it - and Dean wasn’t dumb, and even if he was, it wasn’t like Sam ever let him forget that Blanc was leaving in two months, wasn’t like Dean didn’t have a fucking calender event set on his phone for the last weekend he could expect to have with Blanc - gifts started showing up.

First, it was a replacement part for Baby, a damn hard-to-find and damn expensive hardtop weatherstripping kit arriving at Dean’s house on a Tuesday and provoking Dean into calling Blanc and torn between anger and shock and embarrassment and gratitude and having no idea what to say until Blanc talked him down by, of all things, phone sex in that irresistable drawl of his.

Then, it was a new suit - this one, Dean had known was coming, since Blanc had dragged him to a tailor who opened up his shop just for them on a Saturday - and the weekend after that arrived, Dean wore it for Blanc on their Friday night outing, and Blanc could barely wait to get Dean back to the hotel before he was undressing him and telling Dean how utterly  _ divine _ he looked in it.

It went from there - not everything was so expensive that Dean’s guts curdled in shame at the knowledge he would never be able to afford something like it. But nothing was flippant - nothing was meaningless.

Not even the box of men’s silk briefs that arrived, wrapped in gold tissue paper and so perfectly clingy and smooth against Dean’s skin he had to look up the company and waste a damn sizable chunk of his paycheck buying more.

And it was all… fine. It was good. It was the best Dean had ever had. Better than he’d ever thought possible. 

But Dean wasn’t… used to this. Wasn’t the one who was taken care of but the one who was supposed to do the taking care of side of things, and Blanc had upset the natural order of things, and Dean, for the life of him, couldn’t help but want it. And Blanc.

Which, of course, meant that everything went to hell.

  
  


-o-

  
  



End file.
